


All I Want for Christmas

by dollylux



Series: Fic Advent Calendar 2014: Brothers, Soulmates, and Other Such Sexiness [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Barebacking, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Cuddling & Snuggling, Driving, Fluff, M/M, Motel, Mutual Pining, Reunion Sex, Riding, Stanford Era, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 08:19:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2725445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/pseuds/dollylux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam gets an unexpected phone call on Christmas Eve. (Stanford-era)</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I Want for Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Exaggerated_Specificity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exaggerated_Specificity/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Все, что я желал на Рождество](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6476203) by [Savarna_Scaramouche](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savarna_Scaramouche/pseuds/Savarna_Scaramouche)



> Day five of my fic advent calendar. Prompt: travelling.
> 
> I am obsessed with Stanford era. It's my number one favorite thing to write and think about with Sam and Dean. I try to restrain myself from writing it too much because I don't want to ruin it/over-do it, but I had to. (And I can't promise this'll be the last Stanford fic in this advent calendar, sorry in advance!)

It had taken one phone call to get Sam shoving some clothes into a bag, eyes wild, barely remembering to grab his toothbrush or to tug a beanie down on his head before he stepped out into the chilly Palo Alto afternoon.

_Hello?_

_Hey._

_Dean?_

_Hawthorne, Nevada is six hours from you._

_...Okay?_

_I’m at the Monarch Motel behind the Shell Station on 5th. Room seven._

_...A-Are you--_

_Just get here, Sammy._

_Yeah. Yeah, I’m. I’m on my way._

 

He’d taken a taxi to Enterprise and rented a car, a champagne Nissan Altima with the radio fixed on a soft rock station when he starts it up. He turns the radio off with a flick of his wrist and sets off east in silence, teeth digging into a fingernail that is already chewed down to the quick, ripping in and drawing blood.

He’s aching for Dean now, all of his veins feeling tight and brittle in his body as he merges onto I-80 East. The relief of Dean’s existence, of the thought that he is on the other end of this journey, that it’s Christmas Eve and Sam is going to be spending it with his brother instead of alone makes him feel almost crazed, his hands shaky on the wheel. Like he’s a junkie about to get a sacred needle in his veins instead of a guy in love about to touch the most important person in the entire world.

 

Hawthorne is a tiny town at the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains, about a hundred miles or so southeast of Reno. Sam is strung-out by the time he gets there, hands gripping the wheel, the inside of the car freezing because he forgot to turn on the heat when he got into the mountains, but he doesn’t notice. Doesn’t care.

He finds the motel after a few wrong turns, bypassing the gas station and pulling in right next to the Impala, only hesitating for just a second before he’s killing the engine, unbuckling his seatbelt and climbing out. The motel is decorated with colorful lights, all of the shabby, dirty windows ringed with them almost like a joke. Sam leaves his bag, leaves the coffee he’d stopped and gotten somewhere fifty miles ago and steps up to room seven, resting his forehead against the chipped painted wood of the door before he manages to knock on it.

“ ‘s unlocked,” comes the low rasp from inside, and Sam’s hand is on the doorknob before the last word is even out of Dean’s mouth. He opens the door and is greeted with darkness, with stale, sweat-bitter air. He locks it behind him while his eyes adjust, while the bed comes into focus first and then the rest of the room, Dean’s clothes everywhere, fast food cups battling for territory on the bedside table, Dean’s inherited Colt just within reach on the edge, and salt in a thick ring around the bed.

Sam turns immediately to check the salt line in front of the door he’d just entered, pushing it back into place with his shoe, double-checking that it’s unbroken before he turns back to his brother.

He swallows.

“I’m not dying,” Dean mumbles, sitting up a little, and his face finally comes into view, the pale and scruff of it, his green eyes glittering in the low light. Sam all but drifts over to him, reaching down absently to untie his shoes, to shed them and his beanie, frozen fingers working at his jacket.

Dean just watches him, watches him like he’s enjoying it, like Sam is being simplified, bared just for him. He gets down to his t-shirt, his heart pounding in his chest when he gets his thumb on the brass button of his jeans. Their eyes are locked now, Sam’s heavy with a question that Dean answers by lifting his head in the slightest nod, in permission, in approval.

He edges his jeans down off his slim hips and steps out of them without looking away from Dean, and the walk to the bed feels important, like the start of a ritual. Dean doesn’t move, doesn’t lift the covers or reach out for Sam, but Sam can see the heat in his cheeks, see the quick rise and fall of his bare chest.

Sam pulls the covers back and slides into bed with his brother.

He reaches for him while Dean pulls the blankets back up, slides his arms around Dean’s neck, drawing him in close, tears already burning at the backs of his tired eyes. Dean cups his cheeks and looks him over in the near-darkness, in the rainbowed glow from the lights twinkling around the window, searches his face and makes the softest, most heartbreaking little sound in his throat, a sound so aching that Sam could never have thought of it, couldn’t have possibly conceived of it coming from his brother. 

They come together like a crash, like lightning hitting the earth, and Dean goes all through him just like that, sinks down on top of him and threads all through him, blood and muscle and bone, just slots right back into Sam’s life and floods everything else out, obliterating it all.

Sam pulls him down so hard it has to hurt, slides his long arms around Dean’s exhausted body and crushes Dean down against him, making sure he’s pressed as deep as he can be, that Dean’s hips are digging up between his legs with as much pressure and pain as possible. 

He tastes terrible, like he hasn’t brushed his teeth in a couple of days, he tastes sour like whiskey and smells faintly of blood and ruin. Sam wonders what happened, what drove Dean into this bed and kept him here, what made him desperate enough to call Sam, to beg for Sam to come to him in the only way he knows how. 

Dean breaks the skin of Sam’s bottom lip as the kiss turns more pleading, more hungry, and Sam sighs, blissful, when Dean licks at the blood, drinking it down. _Feed from me, take me apart, lick my bones, have me._

He realizes quickly that Dean is naked, that his cock is thick and burning hot with blood, hard and dripping when Sam gets a hand around it, jacking Dean off while Dean growls low against his mouth, teeth sinking into Sam’s broken bottom lip.

“Need inside of you, Sammy,” he whispers against his lips, blood making their mouths stick together. “Please let me come in.”

Sam is shaking now, trembling all over, but he manages to nod, staring into Dean’s eyes above him, glinting beautiful and vulnerable in the shadows. Dean makes quick work of his underwear, pushing them down his thighs and off, lost at the foot of the bed. He hears the pop-snick of a tube of KY and then the wet drag of Dean’s hand on his own dick, slicking it up. Sam presses his fingers blindly to the tip of the tube, and Dean squeezes some lube out onto them before closing it and tossing it away.

Sam smears his fingers and spreads his legs wide around his brother, reaching down to rub his fingers over his own asshole, the tips of them catching on the tiny, sensitive wrinkles before he just sinks inside, driving two fingers in, and his cheeks flush for how hot he is inside, for how eagerly his hole loosens up, trained for this, desperate for cock. He pushes in and out a few times, spreading the lube around as an afterthought because Dean is right there now, the tip of his cock velvet-soft and hungry, sliding inside of Sam right alongside his fingers, not stopping when they both realize that Sam is still too tight.

He pulls his fingers out and lets his eyes fall closed, arms sliding around Dean’s neck once again while Dean works his way inside of Sam, dick moving with forced patience, sinking in inch by inch until his balls are pressed up hard to Sam’s tailbone and he’s throbbing deep in Sam’s guts.

Dean’s kissing him again, his breath shuddering like he’s crying when he starts to move a little, to grind into Sam with bone-bending, desperate pushes, not thrusting at all, like he can’t stand not to be this deep, this close. Sam cradles him down and just takes those kisses, softening his mouth under Dean’s and making his body as pliant as he can, loosening up all over and just taking what Dean needs to give him.

Because whatever Dean needs, Sam needs, too.

Dean stops moving after a few long moments of shoving and pushing, his whole body trembling like he can’t manage more. Sam starts to move his hips under Dean, working Dean’s cock in and out of himself, doing the work for him and greedily fucking Dean’s dick against his prostate. 

“Use it, Sammy,” Dean whispers against his lips, holding still while Sam fucks his dick, while he whines with every perfect drag. “Use me good.”

Sam moves them then without warning, flipping them over on the mattress that squeaks under their combined weight. He’s on top of Dean now, that dick still rooted inside of him, his hands braced on Dean’s chest as he starts to ride him in earnest now, working Dean in and out of him in expert, filthy circles of his hips. Dean reaches down, grabbing handfuls of Sam’s ass and moving Sam faster, forcing him a rushed, frantic grind that still isn’t fast enough, isn’t hard enough.

Before he can even beg, can open his mouth to take a breath and ask, Dean is bracing his feet against the mattress and lifting his powerful hips to fuck up into Sam hard, their bodies slapping together in sweat and violence and starvation, that cock ruining him inside like it always does, always has, punching through every bit of resistance Sam’s body tries to put up until he’s a sobbing, writhing mess on top of his brother, his own dick in his hand, come shooting out of his slit in thick, relieved ropes all over Dean’s chest.

Dean is fucking him so hard that when he comes it gushes out of Sam’s lax hole, it gets churned deep inside of him and fucked out in a dripping, frothy mess. Sam curls down over Dean, mouths panting against each other while Dean keeps moving inside of him, keeps sliding right into all that scorching hot, loose muscle, soaked with come. 

Sam reaches back when Dean softens, slides his fingers up beneath Dean’s balls and pushes to keep Dean inside of him, to keep the low pulse of his heart right where it is for as long as he can have it.

“My sweet boy,” Dean finally sighs against Sam’s swollen mouth, his arms strong around Sam’s back where he’s hugging him down, keeping him where he is when they finally kiss.

 

Sam wakes up sometime well after midnight to see snow falling outside of the cheerfully lit window. He’s disoriented at first, wondering how the hell it’s snowing in Palo Alto when it had been in the low fifties for most of the afternoon, and then he remembers. The body he’s curled against, the solid, warm chest his cheek is nestled into, the slow, even breath against the top of his head. Dean. He’s with Dean. It’s Christmas morning, and it’s snowing, and he’s curled up in bed with Dean.

He closes his eyes to let it wash over him, that completeness that is so beautiful, so utterly perfect that it truly hurts. It’s moments like this that let him believe in God, that make him think that maybe sometimes, prayers really do get answered. That someone is looking out for him, for both of them. That they aren’t despised for this unstoppable thing between them.

“You okay?” Dean’s voice is gruff and quiet, his sleep-heavy hand running up and down Sam’s bare arm under the covers. Sam lifts his head just as Dean looks down, and he gives him a little smile when their eyes meet, stretching up to press a kiss to Dean’s jaw and then to his mouth. 

“Merry Christmas.”

Dean grunts, smiling against Sam’s mouth, Dean’s arm tightening around him as he kisses him back, his lips satin-soft and pale with sleep.

“Sorry I didn’t get you anything. This was kind of… unplanned.” 

Sam’s eyes close when Dean’s hand pushes up into his hair from the nape, the trimmed curves of Dean’s fingernails gliding over his scalp in slow, lazy circles. He nestles back down against him, tucking his face into Dean’s neck and breathing him in.

“There’s literally nothing in the world I want except this. Promise.” He presses his lips to Dean’s throat, right over the steady thrum of Dean’s heartbeat, his chest tightening when Dean’s other hand finds his, their fingers lacing together, hands tucking in tight and resting on Dean’s stomach. Dean’s lips firm up where he’s got his face buried in Sam’s hair, and Sam feels the kiss Dean presses there.

“Merry Christmas, Sammy.”


End file.
